No Choice Is A Good Choice
by Rose O' Sharon
Summary: What happens when Sherlock and John are on the run and have to take cover in the 'wrong' sort of hotel?
1. The Set Up

No Choice Is A Good Choice

By Rose O' Sharon

Rating: M as in 'M' for MATURE

Style: Slash

Disclaimer: None of the members of Sherlock belongs to me (Blastitalltoheck). Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own them, but I'm borrowing them for now. I will return them when I'm done . . . not that they'd want them back after I get done with them (ha ha).

Warnings: Major male/male sex (Johnlock my new OTP - though I do lean toward Johncroft, but this isn't that story - and if anyone has any story recs in either, please PM me and let me know)

Summary: What can happen when Sherlock and John are on the run and duck for cover into the 'wrong' kind of hotel?

Comments: Yes to all comments, as long as they're nicely phrased and if they have nothing to do with the warning. You no likey, you no reedy, 'K? S'just a form o' common sense. :D

A/N: I really, really hate it when authors say, "I'm not sure . . ." or "This really sucks . . ." and if I see those, then I usually refuse to read the story based on that comment alone. However, that said, I'm afraid I am rather finding myself in that predicament, because I have struggled with this story for weeks now, and have seriously tried to beat these guys into staying into some kind of character, particularly toward the latter half of the story, once the 'action'. as it were, really commences.

Also, I have written, re-written, re-written again, added parts, took away parts, changed participants, edited, and tweaked this story until, quite honestly am sick unto death of it, so have decided to post it anyway. So, with that said, unless there are such major gaffes in it that a semi as big as Optimus Prime could drive through with Bumblebee by his side, please be informed that it probably won't be fixed right away if at all. I also have acted as my own Beta, and this is not Brit-picked

Thank you, RoseO'Sharon

S/W/S/W

"Sherlock," John's voice was low. "I think we may have ducked into the wrong kind of place."

Sherlock looked around and was forced to concur with John's assessment, but it had been the first place they'd seen that had been open on the whole seedy block, and they'd needed to get away from the people who had been chasing them with extreme prejudice and intent to kill, so the two could report back to Mycroft.

However, as they looked around what was obviously a lobby of some sort at the mostly men who kissed and groped at various other body parts on each other, Sherlock had to wonder if it had, indeed, been a smart move on their part.

He looked around for exits, but there didn't seem to be any, other than the front door, and both he and John knew _that_ was out due to the gang of men that had pursued them there in the first place.

"We'd better do something," Sherlock frowned even more deeply than he was already. "We're starting to draw attention."

Putting his actions to words, he drew John into a short line of people that waited in front of a very dark and deeply tinted glass window. John squinted but couldn't see who sat behind the glass as the people, once they had handed money through the ridiculously small hole at the bottom of the window, were buzzed through a side door.

Sherlock, who had already deduced how much they'd need by how much those in front had paid, pulled out his wallet, and John looked around. "I don't think this is such a good idea, Sherlock. We don't know what goes on back . . . there," he protested as he nervously eyed the others as they passed through the door into who knew what . . . or where. "And I'm not sure I _want_ to know."

"Of course it's not a good idea," Sherlock snapped. "But if you have a better one, now would certainly be the time to come up with it," he waited for a moment and all but huffed when John just sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

"I didn't think so. However, I do know what's out that way," he waved his hand at the front door. "And sooner or later those men searching for us are going to figure out where we went and come after us. We need to get back to Mycroft with the report, and we can't do that if we're caught. Besides if you can get past your 'I'm not gay, but there are a lot of people here who are and it's making me nervous' block right now, I'm sure even you'll be able to figure out that most places like this generally have a back door of some kind, or at the very least, a set of windows available to escape through."

John's eyes narrowed as they moved up in line and closer to the window. "Did you just imply that I was 'homophobic'? Me? The one who has a lesbian for a sister?" He scowled at Sherlock's back, but the taller man didn't answer as he stepped up to the window. For a moment, the person whom they assumed was a man and who could doubtlessly see them far better than they could see him, cackled loudly as Sherlock clenched John's arm tightly and shushed him, though very sweetly, and John realized that Sherlock had slipped effortlessly into 'actor' mode.

"Oh, aren't you two adorable," the old man giggled and Sherlock smiled, though John could almost hear his teeth as they ground together. "What a pretty couple you make. And newlyweds too, from the looks o' ya'," he chuckled, and even the ever-unflappable Sherlock had to clear his throat before he spoke, though he flashed an almost-smile.

"Yes, of course," He answered, and John blinked.

"You wouldn't believe how new," he said, then grimaced as Sherlock stepped on his foot.

"Well, for you then, we have a special," the assumed man chuckled. "You can have the Hawaii Honeymoon for three hours and only a hundred pounds. You'll find everything you need in the nightstand, and don't worry, it's all cleaned, sterilized, new, and unused," they could hear his grin as it widened even if they couldn't see it. "We like to pride ourselves on being a full service hotel for the Alternative Lifestyle, despite the rather . . . dreary . . . location."

"I see. Good," Sherlock answered, unsure of exactly what else he was supposed to say. He handed the money over to the old man through the small hole at the bottom of the window, and a moment later, the door was buzzed open _just_ as the main door of the 'hotel' opened. Two very large, very angry men entered the hotel and Sherlock and John casually passed through the buzzed-open door. It closed behind them as the old man welcomed the new comers and told them to get in line.

Sherlock and John glanced at one another as male sounds of sexual and carnal exultation sounded around them from behind closed doors on both sides of the hallway, and Sherlock cursed quietly as there was obviously no other exit in the place readily available. The only one there was, in fact, a fire door attached to an alarm that Sherlock knew he didn't have time to disarm before the gang that was after them found out where he and John had gone.

"Uh . . . maybe there's a window we can go out of in the room," John suggested as he looked at the tacky, palm-tree themed key in Sherlock's hand, and the detective nodded. Quickly, they moved down the seemingly extremely long corridor and read the signs on the doors until they found 'Hawaii Honeymoon' and Sherlock unlocked the door as John pushed it open.

"Oh. Dear. Gods," was all John could think of to say and it was with disgust that they gazed at the loud, floral-patterned curtains and matching bedspread, the plastic grass skirts that surrounded the doorjambs and nightstand, and the equally plastic half coconuts that had been used to decorate the walls and that ringed the edge of the nightstand and the bathroom door.

They heard the outer door as it was opened, and both men rushed to the window of the room. They pushed the curtain aside, but found that the window under it was small. Sherlock might have been able to squeeze through, if he left his coat and jacket behind, but there was no way John would fit, and when they looked in the bathroom, that had no window at all.


	2. I Told Mycroft This Was A Bad Idea!

_**A/N:**_Greetings to my followers! Thank you SO much for finding my tale of some interest. I can only hope it remains this way. Forgot also to say this story is liberally sprinkled with the F-bomb. Oh! And this is set Post-Reichenbach

**Official** **Stuf**

S/W/S/W

_They heard the outer door as it was opened, and both men rushed to the window of the room. They pushed the curtain aside, but found that the window under it was small. Sherlock might have been able to squeeze through, if he left his coat and jacket behind, but there was no way John would fit, and when they looked in the bathroom, that had no window at all._

"Listen, you've got to go," John said as he looked at the window, but Sherlock shook his head.

"I promised you when I came back from being . . . gone," he hesitated, and John's frown deepened. "I wouldn't leave you behind again. I won't do it, John," Sherlock said stubbornly, and John shook his head.

"You can get out and get to Mycroft and then come back for me."

"There isn't time, and you know it. You'll be dead before the next half-hour is out and the Police Nationale will be pulling your body out of the Seine by morning. I won't let that happen," Sherlock scowled at his friend. They both looked at the door to the hallway as very loud voices sounded in the hall.

"Look for the rooms with no sound," they heard one yell. "Those guys ain't going ta' be screwing each other."

"American; probably North-Eastern, judging by the nasal tones and how fast they're speaking, " Sherlock frowned. "I was right. The smuggling ring is international," Sherlock took a deep breath as he looked over at John and moved before he, or John, could change his mind.

"Of course you were right," John said, annoyed. "Good for you. Now what are we going to do so that neither one of us ends up in the Seine tonight?"

"There's only one thing we can do, and it's this," Sherlock answered decisively, and before the doctor could move, Sherlock pulled the startled man's coat off, then almost ripped the jumper from over his head.

"Sherlock," John hissed. "What the hell . . .!?"

"This is why I don't work for Mycroft very often," Sherlock almost spit. "Welcome John, to the wonderful world of what can happen when Mycroft's carefully laid plans explode in your face and you need to improvise so as not to get killed. Get your trousers and pants off and get into the bed."

"Trousers _and_ pants?" John almost choked as he went to do what Sherlock ordered, even as Sherlock removed his own clothing and draped it over a nearby chair.

"If they're looking for occupied rooms without sound, that's exactly what we are," Sherlock sighed as if John were testing his patience, which John knew he probably was, but the surreality of the entire situation was almost more than he could bear. "And since this _is_ the honeymoon suite," Sherlock almost gagged on the words. "Quiet from this room would be most suspicious, don't you think? Therefore, it would be the first place they'd come looking. And, obviously, from the fact that no one has attempted to stop them, they are known to the owners, but since they were forced to pay and aren't randomly kicking doors down, they are forced to exercise a little self-control in their . . . endeavors to locate us - probably by someone higher they they on the food chain. "

John shook his head and joined his friend under the covers but almost had a heart-attack when Sherlock rolled over onto his naked body. "Now wh . . . what are you doing?" He stuttered, and he could tell at this point that Sherlock was gritting his teeth in impatience and with more than a little frustration at John's inability to grasp what Sherlock no doubt saw a 'simple' solution to their dilemma.

"Making things believable. Unless you'd rather be killed by our large friends out there," the taller man answered as he looked into the deeply shocked blue eyes of his friend below him. "Now, moan."

"What?" John really hated sounding like a digitalized loop track, but really, what else was he supposed to do in that moment?

"Oh dear gods," John pictured Sherlock, at this point doing a facepalm . . . if the man ever did anything like that. "Moan. Groan. Make like you're enjoying this."

"En . . . enjoying what?" John asked, his ocean blue eyes wide and almost completely round in his shock, and he stared hard at Sherlock. "I've been drugged, haven't I? You drugged me again and this is some weird Freudian hallucination, right?" He suddenly nodded. "That's it. I've been drugged, I'm going to wake up in the flat, and you're going to explain how it was just some bizarre experiment and how we're _not_ in France, _not_ being hunted by people who are going to kill us if we don't do . . . stuff . . . that _not_ gay men don't normally do together."

"John! Now is NOT the time to go to pieces on me," Sherlock snapped as he opened the nightstand, pulled some things out of the drawer, then sighed. "I told Mycroft it was a lousy plan," he opened a bottle of something, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. "Great. Coconut. I really hate coconut," he shook his head and his familiar whinging tone served to actually ground John and managed to convince him of the reality of the situation, which he had hoped wasn't the case. However, especially when he was with Sherlock, his luck tended to run to the bad end of the spectrum, and of course, it had continued that way since Sherlock had come back after the Fall.

"I told him it was a bad idea to bring you," Sherlock continued and rubbed his hands together. "Just in case the plan went wrong, which I just _knew_ it would, but did he listen to me? No. Just like he _never_ listens to me!" He slithered under the blankets, and John suddenly gasped as Sherlock's warm, slippery hands suddenly slid over his limp shaft. "Now, make some noise, damn it, John!" Sherlock ordered as he stroked the man. "Our lives depend on this!"

"Sherlock! What the fu . . ." John started, but then gasped and surged upward as something warm and wet suddenly surrounded his all too quickly semi-aroused cock. He shivered and gripped the blankets in his fists.


	3. As Unpredictable as it Gets

**A/N**: Greetings and Salutations yet again! :D I first want to welcome all you who have chosen to follow and or favorite this tale I have been working on. I also want to let you know that it is finished, but a lot of parts are STILL being rewritten, re-worked, tweaked, and otherwise hacked unto death so that I'm hoping to have something coherent and relatively believable for you, my friends, to while away a few minutes of your days with.

I also want to thank you for choosing my words to take you to this place I have created, and away from your very likely, far more interesting lives than what I currently enjoy. :D

**I also hope you all who are reading this noted it is 'M' for mature and that while it has been tame, I'm afraid that's about to end . . . no pun intended *Snort Grin***

One more **A/N **and we can resume from where we left off. :D Sherlock not mine. Wishful thinking.

Also, I forgot to tell you at the beginning, that this is actually the first of what is going to be a three part . . . I hesitate to use the word series, but since a series is something that follows one upon another, then that is what this is.

S/W/S/W

_"Sherlock! What the fu . . ." John started, but then gasped and surged upward as something warm and wet suddenly surrounded his all too quickly semi-aroused cock. He shivered and gripped the blankets in his fists._

It was with _another_ sudden jolt that he realized his shock and horror were at _immediate_ odds with the sizzling bolts of electric pleasure that unexpectedly shot through him as he suddenly knew _exactly_ what Sherlock was doing.

He couldn't stop himself and writhed as he felt Sherlock's wet tongue as it slid along the length of him and long, surprisingly gentle, sensitive fingers teased his sack underneath, and there was no way in any kind of hell that John could keep the moan of pure sexual arousal inside of him . . . which he knew had been Sherlock's plan.

He was vocal, outspoken, and emotional in all areas of his life, and in sex he was no different. Moans, gasps, cries, and whimpers left him as Sherlock's mouth did things to him that made him experience and enjoy feelings and emotions that he'd never quite thought he'd actually be able to appreciate . . . ever.

"Hey! You can't be opening doors like that!" Someone's voice shouted in anger as a door slammed from up the hall. Sherlock suddenly cursed and his mouth came off John with an audible pop. The extremely disappointed whine that left him as Sherlock did, surprised him, and obviously Sherlock, as he froze for a moment. Perhaps that was just a little _too_ much realism, even for Sherlock, and nervously, John looked at the lump under the blanket that had started moving back up his body.

"He's going to kill me when this is over," John thought. "Hell, _I'm_ probably going to kill me when this is over."

"Damn it, John, they're actually looking in the rooms now. I'm going to kill Mycroft for this," Sherlock snarled as he slid out from under the covers and John's breath heaved in his chest.

"Right. Kill Mycroft. I'll help hide the body if you'd like, as long as you don't kill me. It'd be hard for me to help you hide the body if you did that," John murmured as his whole body fell back on to the bed, and he wondered where he had been while his weight had apparently been balanced only on his feet, shoulders, and head.

Oh yeah. Head. He had been getting head from Sherlock. He almost giggled at the random thoughts that flitted through his endorphin-flooded mind, and he barely registered movement as Sherlock again reached over to the nightstand and pulled a tube from it.

"I am very sorry abut this, John," the younger man apologized, somewhat formally John noted, and he re-focused his attention back on Sherlock. "But if they look in the door, they're going to need to see something that's _not_ our faces."

"What do you mean?" John's voice dropped to a whisper as his entire body suddenly went rigid below Sherlock's, and John thought he heard a brief sound of actual regret in the detective's voice as he explained.

"Since they're looking, they're going to need to see what they're looking for." Sherlock wouldn't meet John's eyes as he continued to do whatever it was with the tube he held. "And there's no way to be able to fake what they're looking for," he looked away and the swallow he made was almost audible. "Look, before I do anything, I have to tell you this. When I was unraveling Moriarty's web, there were things I had to do to get close to people and get information out of them . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off and John took a deep breath. "And I became quite good at it."

"You . . . you're talking about sex," John's voice was quiet, and Sherlock nodded. "Wait a minute!" John exclaimed, his voice loud in the suddenly quiet room, though he hushed a moment later as Sherlock looked frantically at the door, then back at his friend. "You're talking about actually _fucking_ me, aren't you!?"

"Yes, John, and the sooner we get started, the sooner we can convince those men outside we're not us," Sherlock's tone was even and controlled, and John suddenly sat up and almost dislodged Sherlock, who had expected the move, and used his height and positional advantage to hold John down, though his hands were still slippery with the edible lubricant.

"No!" John exclaimed and tried to get up. "This is insane! _You're_ insane if you think I'm going to let you do that!"

"Then what do you suggest we do!?" Sherlock hissed as he all but pushed John back down. "It's either this or walk into our friends' hands out there, and need I remind you that there is more at stake here than just your precious manhood!? "Mycroft needs these papers and our information, John. Or do we simply tell those Russian women who've paid money to come here only to have their passports confiscated and used as drug mules that 'I'm sorry. John Watson preferred to be dead rather than be buggered one time, never to be mentioned again by his best friend who just happens to be male; so, better luck next time', but at least John died with his reputation, and his arse, unsullied."

"Sherlock, that is _not_ fair," John scowled, and Sherlock shook his head.

"When are you going to understand that life _itself_ isn't fair? They are looking for us; our faces, _and_ for us to do the _predictable_ thing. _But_ if we're going to get out of this, we have to do the _unpredictable_, and right now, _this_ is as unpredictable as it gets!" As if to punctuate his words, yet another door was opened, and they both looked towards theirs as more exclamations of irritation sounded.

"Oh shite," John flopped back down to the mattress and resigned himself to his fate. Sherlock closed his eyes as the angry-sounding confrontations got closer. "Then I guess we'd just better get this over with, hadn't we?" John covered his face with his hand.

"If it's any consolation," Sherlock's voice was low and John would have even said, 'ashamed', but he wasn't going to contemplate whether it was real or not, considering how good of an actor Sherlock really was. "I _can_ make it good for you . . . I promise you that, and when this is over, if you want to leave, I won't blame you. I'll let you go. In fact, if it helps, you may continue to think of everything that has and will taken/take place here, and in fact on this whole ridiculous farce of a mission, as just a horrible drug reaction, where come tomorrow, everything will be easy and uncomplicated; exactly as it was before."

"Nothing with you Sherlock, has _ever_ been easy and uncomplicated," John sighed, gazed at his friend, and smiled, if not bravely then at least not like he were shaking in his proverbial shoes, had he actually been wearing any, and he narrowed his lips and swallowed. "So, I guess we'd better get this over with then; onward and upward, into the breach" he blinked. "So to speak," he amended, and together he and Sherlock kicked the blankets off their bodies.


	4. Society's Norms Crash in a Flaming Wreck

**A/N: **Greetings once more everyone! :D Thank you as always to each of my followers and my Fave makers, and to my reviewers! Your kindness is amazing and completely appreciated! Also appreciated is the fact that you are staying with me!

Again, this is 'M' for lots of Johnlock goodness. We're starting to call . . . ahem . . . things what they are and dropping 'F' bombs along the way. And I am sorry that I am absolutely forced to say that I'm not really happy with the way this part came out. Perhaps there is too much too fast, but I suppose, if it gets too many complaints, I can simply re-work it. However, at the same time, there are two major bad guys going through the hallway intent on murdering our heroes and time, as Sherlock would say, is of the essance', so our heroes have tomake the best of a 'bad' situation. :D

And they still aren't mine (still blastitalltoheck) . . .

S/W/S/W

_"Nothing with you Sherlock, has ever__been easy and uncomplicated," John sighed, gazed at his friend, and smiled, if not bravely then at least not like he were shaking in his proverbial shoes, had he actually been wearing any, and he narrowed his lips and swallowed. "So, I guess we'd better get this over with then, onward and upward, into the breach," he blinked. "So to speak," he amended, and together he and Sherlock kicked the blankets off their bodies._

"I _will_ make it good for you," Sherlock promised again, and John nodded, though for some reason, Sherlock's quiet tone left him feeling guilty.

"Yeah. I know," he rubbed his eyes. "And to tell you the truth, Sherlock, if that blowjob you did was any kind of proof, I don't really think there is _anything_ you could do badly once you put your mind to it."

"Blowjobs don't exactly involve the mind, John," Sherlock said, and John had to look at him to see if he were actually joking. However, Sherlock's head was bowed and his mop of curly hair blocked John's view of his eyes as he smeared his fingers with the gel. "I need to know that you trust me, John," Sherlock said, and John didn't even have to think about his answer.

"I do," he said and knew that he 'd meant it. It also helped that he knew that Sherlock was right. They really _were_ out of options. There _was_ nowhere to go, neither _one_ would leave the other, and as for fighting, as good as they were, not even he and Sherlock could fight off an _entire_ smuggling ring. So, if being buggered by Sherlock meant that they lived another day to fight another battle . . . well, they lived another day to fight another battle.

John knew that he would get through this and live on, though it would be awkward to say the very least and for probably quite a while. Sure, he'd probably go off and screw about a dozen women to re-affirm his manliness; his not gayness, but John didn't know _what_ this would do to Sherlock.

Sherlock had been . . . different when he'd come back from taking apart that damned madman's web. He was still arrogant and snarky and insufferable; God forbid _that_ ever changed, but there were lines around his eyes and new scars on his body. There was also something new about him though that lurked _just_ behind his eyes and oddly enough, it seemed to be something only _he_, John, could see.

John hadn't said anything to his friend, of course. He knew that Sherlock would probably tell him to go to hell in the fastest transport he could find, and then go smoke a half dozen cigarettes just to spite John, but that what-ever-_it-_was behind Sherlock's eyes defied description, and John only knew that, to him at least, it just screamed out to John and begged him for some kind of protection.

In fact, as ridiculous as it sounded, since Sherlock had returned, John had found himself wanting nothing more than to just wrap his friend in his own arms, sequester him away in a house in the country, Sussex maybe, and never let him out of his sight ever again except to go do something no more exciting and stressful than tend bees.

He frowned and wished that, just _once,_ Sherlock would allow John to actually care about him, rather than just dance around it. Sherlock had already paid the ultimate sacrifice for caring about John, and the doctor wished Sherlock would do him the same favor in return.

"You're thinking too loudly again and it is very distracting," Sherlock all but hissed as yet another pair of startled yelps sounded from down the hallway as another door was opened and two people were shocked from their nocturnal activities.

John forced his head to relax into the pillow as warm lips covered his lower body in kisses, and he mused that other than the state of slight dryness and the surrounding razor stubble, Sherlock's lips really _didn't_ feel that much different from a woman's lips. However, that and all thoughts of their pursuers were immediately lost to John, and his more immediate fear of what was about to happen as Sherlock's hands slickly glided around his hips and massaged his arse as that wonderfully talented, hot mouth, engulfed him once more.

He couldn't help himself as both hands clutched the pillow at either side of his head and he ground it into the softness as a loud groan of satisfaction left his open mouth. Even as he did so, though, he couldn't help but wonder about himself. He wondered what was in him that responded so readily and willingly and with such heated desire as his best friend – his best _male_ friend – stimulated him so incredibly easily nearly to the point of mindlessness.

Suddenly, as Sherlock drew his mouth upward, John felt something warm and slick as it entered his body, and he instantly froze. Sherlock thrust his tongue into the sensitive hollow between the head and the top of his once more fully hardened shaft, and John shuddered and cried out, even as what he knew to be a finger was inserted into him.

He'd done enough prostate exams and had them done on him to know what that felt like and was somewhat calmed by the familiar feeling. However, it was the incredible blowjob being performed at the same _time_ that intensified said feeling, and when the second finger was inserted, even John didn't recognize the sound that left him as any he'd ever made before with anyone.

And, oh, his body demanded more of _that_ kind of pleasure, and he couldn't deny it. He planted his feet flat on the mattress and pushed himself up, into Sherlock's mouth and then down, onto his fingers. There was a saying he'd heard once that went, 'the only difference between a gay man and a straight man were three beers,' and John almost laughed as he, somewhat inappropriately he supposed, wondered if Sherlock would buy him his three beers when this . . . whatever it was, was over.

In response, he felt another finger as it entered him and joined the first two. He gasped at the unfamiliar, but extraordinarily and amazingly gratifying feelings that the fingers drew from him, and another cry left him as he squirmed . . . and promptly and uncontrollably all but _launched_ himself into the air as the fingers _finally_ touched his prostate.

John knew . . . thought . . . that he should have been disgusted.

However, he had to acknowledge the fact that he actually _liked_ the things that Sherlock was doing to him . . . at least, his body certainly did. He also liked the feelings that Sherlock brought out in him. He hadn't ever known that he _had_ places on him that could be brought to the kind of pleasure that Sherlock gave him, and he liked learning _that_ as well. And, since he was being _completely_ honest with himself, he also had to admit to himself that, sexually, he actually liked being _with_ Sherlock. After all, Sherlock _certainly_ wasn't hurting him any.

John was forced to admit also, and he had to do it without any kind of shame because that would cheapen what Sherlock was doing for them, that he was glad that it was he who was on the receiving end of Sherlock's probably hard-won sexual prowess. He cried out as he pushed against the fingers that possessed him, and as of that moment, totally abandoned all of Society's Norms he'd ever subscribed to in the areas of male on male sex . . . at least for that moment.

He almost giggled right then and there as he realized that it wasn't as if he hadn't already thrown off most of what he'd been taught had been normal anyway (getting away with shooting a serial killing cabbie and giggling with Sherlock wearing only a sheet in Buckingham Palace being only two such examples). He decided that one more Norm that went down screaming in a twisted wreck of blazing flames of lust as his best friend prepared him for what was probably going to be the best, and last screw of his life _with_ said best friend, was not really that big of a deal.


	5. Defloration!

**A/N: **Greetings all yet again! :D I hope all you are doing well. Once more I would just like to acknowledge my gratitude to those of you who have chosen not only to review, but to follow my story and or do any kind of favoriting! Without you there would BE no story . . . well, okay, there would, but it would just be sitting on a disk doing nothing, and poor Sherlock and John would be bored! And we can't have that, can we. :D

I also want to apologize for not putting out a chapter yesterday, but I was absolutely floored with an attack of high blood pressure and a migraine headache I thought would make the top of my head explode and my eyeballs pop out of the sockets . . . and other bodily pain and stuff that need not be graphically described. Anyway, doing well today, and I shall make up for nothing yesterday by **_two_** today. :D I hope that meets with your approval. :D

**Also, this is the continuation of an 'M' story and anything Sherlock doesn't belong to me. :(**

S/W/S/W

_He almost giggled right then and there as he realized that it wasn't as if he hadn't already thrown off most of what he'd been taught had been normal anyway (getting away with shooting a serial killing cabbie and giggling with Sherlock wearing only a sheet in Buckingham Palace being only two such examples). He decided that one more Norm that went down screaming in a twisted wreck of blazing flames of lust as his best friend prepared him for what was probably going to be the best, and last screw of his life with said best friend, was not really that big of a deal._

Sherlock clenched his teeth and John knew that the moment had come. "You have to roll over now, John. It will hurt more if you don't . . ." his voice was steady and calm, and John shook his head.

"No," He panted. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath while Sherlock had practiced his expertise on him, and it was hard to speak. "Want to see you," John smiled as confidence he wasn't sure he actually felt steadied his own tone, breathless though it was, but the detective shook his head.

"I told you it'll hurt more this way. I don't want to hurt you," Sherlock protested and they both looked furtively at the door as footsteps came closer to their room. John frowned because once he decided on a course of action, the soldier in him wouldn't let him retreat, and he shook his head.

"I. Want. To. See. You," he repeated stubbornly and Sherlock inhaled deeply as he withdrew his fingers from his friend. John allowed the whimper that left him to be heard, and his breath shallowed and sped up as Sherlock slathered himself with more of the gel, applied more to John's ready center, and glanced quickly at the doctor's face.

John knew that Sherlock was checking for any hesitancy or fear on his face, and John made sure there was none. Sweat dripped down his face and he left his expression as open and as trusting as he could, but even _then_ Sherlock continued to hesitate. John narrowed his lips in impatience and wiggled his hips. Finally, but maddeningly slowly, Sherlock introduced himself to the prepared center, then pushed forward as John pushed down. John hadn't been prepared for the shock of the sudden pain he felt as Sherlock penetrated into him, and he froze as Sherlock stopped any and all movement.

A blasphemous curse left him as his body automatically clenched into the pain, and he felt Sherlock tense over and in him. "I'm sorry, John. I told you it would hurt more this way," Sherlock apologized, but continued to hold himself immobile. John took several deep breaths and forced his body to relax around his suddenly full cavity even as he fought back the urge to need to use the bathroom. After a moment he got his bodily reactions under control and looked into his friend's face, though he couldn't see his eyes.

"'S'okay." He assured Sherlock breathlessly. "Virgin, remember?" He allowed a few more moments to pass, snickered as he realized that technically, his best friend had just taken said virginity, and knew that because of the pain that if there had been anyone who had to have done it, he really _was_ glad it was Sherlock.

Suddenly, he realized that Sherlock wasn't moving. "Okay, you can move anytime, now," he directed, not really knowing what would come next, but not willing to stop. "I'm ready. Really. Go _on_," he panted through clenched teeth as he clutched at the bedding though he tried not to clench his lower body.

"Okay, John," Sherlock answered and pushed further into him, then slid out again, which actually didn't feel too bad, though it was still strange to say the least about it, and John experimentally moved his own hips upward.

Shockingly, a choked back, almost strangled and obviously reluctant moan was almost torn from Sherlock's throat and he closed his eyes as he couldn't stop the pleasure that shot through him, nor could he keep his hands from curling into fists on either side of John's shoulders, and the doctor did not miss _that_ reaction at all.

So. Sherlock could feel pleasure from this as well. So much for the theory of him being asexual.

That was . . . interesting. Made sense though. Sherlock was a former cocaine user. One of the effects, at least in the beginning, was heightened sexual arousal. Which meant that more-than-likely, Sherlock wasn't alarmed, as Mycroft said, by the act itself, he was alarmed by the association of sex to drugs.

Well, he could work with that.

John raised his head slightly and experimentally tightened his muscles around Sherlock as the dark-haired man pushed into him again.

Yes! It was clear though, that even as he tried to deny it, Sherlock had definitely liked it.


	6. Too Much

**_A/N: _****Here is the second chapter for the day I promised, to make up for the one I couldn't leave yesterday. **

**Still 'M' and still not mine.**

S/W/S/W

_Yes! It was clear though, that even as he tried to deny it, Sherlock had definitely liked it._

Sherlock fought for his control, He certainly hadn't expected to enjoy what he was doing to the other man, and he wasn't here for the enjoyment of it. In fact, when it was all over, he knew it was going to be what his brother had termed, maybe not so ridiculously, a 'Danger Night'. The minute he had started this . . . thing, he had thought it was going to be all him, and everything was going to be under his complete control, including John. But, to his almost shock, John wasn't just laying beneath him and pretending to moan. John was actually participating and it was abundantly clear that John genuinely _liked _what was being done to him_._

He'd had no idea that John would be participating in what was essentially his own rape, and Sherlock hated the fact that it was he that was forcing John to do it. Quite frankly Sherlock honestly didn't know how to deal with it or to stop it, and he tried his hardest _not_ to become emotionally involved; to keep his mind separate from his body. However, it was clear that John was having none of that, and he moved his hips in a small circle, raised his hands, and touched Sherlock's taut shoulders.

Oh dear gods. John was going to kill him. He'd _never_ be able to maintain _any_ kind of control if John kept doing that. Sweat beaded on Sherlock's forehead and his arms literally shook on either side of John's shoulders; the left one covered in a nasty-looking starburst of red and white raised scar tissue that had brought him to Sherlock.

The wound had obviously been made by a large military style weapon, and those were not kind. In fat, he could probably deduce the make and model of the weapon if he tried hard enough, which would being the traitorous transport of his back under control. Relieved, Sherlock tried to focus on the scar, but without warning, John stroked his fingers over Sherlock's prominent collarbones and down his skin to his chest, and Sherlock's damnable body betrayed him once more and another . . . sound . . . of his indicated pleasure was yanked from his throat.

That had never happened before. He had _always_ remained in control during his encounters, even during the worst of his addiction. _No_ one had _ever_ been able to make him even _remotely_ feel anything other than the necessity of and contempt for the act, and damn it, John absolutely _had_ to stop touching him! He couldn't do this . . . act . . . and keep his control if John insisted on touching him . . . _or_ moving his hips like that!

"It's okay, Sherlock," John suddenly whispered, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

It wasn't okay! _Nothing_ about this was okay! Why the hell couldn't John _see_ that! Why did John insist on torturing him like this! This wasn't _supposed_ to feel good!

"Sherlock," John's voice once more interrupted his inner chastisement and his voice was steady, and strong. John was so strong now and brave and Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from raising and he met his friend's eyes. "Let. Go. Sherlock," he suddenly growled, and thrust his hips up into Sherlock with each word even as his fingers suddenly found his very sensitive nipples.

So focused on himself and his inner monologue was he that he had almost lost his hard on. However, at John's deeply growled orders and his touch, he suddenly regained it in force as he took in John's dilated pupils, racing pulse, and obvious trust . . . and his more than obvious want.

As much as Sherlock wanted _not_ to, not even _he_ could keep himself from throwing his head back, raising his body, and gripping John's thighs ever so tightly with his arms, and literally pulling John deeper over him. He squeezed his eyes shut and hated himself for what he was doing, but there was no way he could stop it. He thrust forward and did exactly as John had ordered . . . _ordered_ of all things and he was going to go down in flames and shatter into a million pieces.

Maybe this _was_ going to be a Danger Night.


	7. Mine

**A/N: **Greetings yet again everyone! Iwas getting ready for sleeping and I remembered I hadn't posted this day's chapter of the story! I apologize, and once more greet all my Followers, Favoriters, and Reviewers! :D

Darn it. Two minutes after midnight. That means I owe you all another chapter . . .

Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement!

**I just want to remind you once again, that this is an 'M' class story, which means sex, and it is slash, which, in this case, is sex between two lovely fictional males.**

Two lovely fictional males that don't belong to me, nor am I making any kind of money off this.

S/W/S/W

_Maybe this was going to be a Danger Night._

John had watched with mounting frustration as his friend struggled with himself and fought within his mind to keep control of the situation. However, he also knew that they had lost control of _anything_ that had happened to them in the last fifteen minutes . . . gods, had it really only been fifteen minutes . . . since they had been forced to retreat to the lobby of the 'hotel'. From then on their fates had been sealed, so to speak, and there was nothing more to be done about it _except_ to continue.

John had seen the self-loathing that had flashed through Sherlock's mind as he briefly looked up, and that was _it_ as far as _he_ was concerned.

John was _not_ going to allow his friend to hate himself for something they _really_ had no control over, and decided that even though he had no experience with men, he _did_ have experience with sex, and damned if he was going to let his friend lose himself in his own mind; a mind which was clearly far too involved in what was happening.

So, was there something he could do to make Sherlock let go? He decided an experiment of his own would not be out of order in the situation and he was going to see if anything he could do would make his friend lose his famous restraint.

He almost did a fist pump when he moved his hips and _Sherlock_, of all people, had started shaking and his eyes glazed over in desire. However, John watched Sherlock's eyes suddenly focus on his scar and he scowled as the pleasure started to drain out of them, even as he recognized the intense focus as Sherlock obviously regained his control over his body, especially if the sudden softening in his orifice was anything to go by.

No _way_ was John going to allow _that_, and he moved his hands. If there had been a female over him, he would have explored her upper body several times over by now with his hands, his mouth, and whatever else he'd wanted, and he'd never had any complaints. So, if he touched Sherlock . . .

OH GODS, YES!

Sherlock immediately went rock hard and his pupils blew open so suddenly it was amazing the man hadn't gone blind!

He! Simple, plain, ordinary John Watson, was causing the most focused, intelligent, most in-control man he'd ever known to be able to lose himself to what Sherlock had previously described as a 'necessary evil of society meant for procreation that had caused more wars and murders than religion', and a burst of pure power and pride flared through him.

Oh yes. He was going to make _sure_ that Sherlock felt _every_ sexual emotion he could wring out of him, and he was going to make the genius lose himself in it even if it _was_ just this once and if it took fucking his damn brain as well as his body to do it!

"_Screw you, Mycroft and you Irene Adler, and even you too, Sherlock,_" John thought as he spoke to Sherlock's mind with his words and Sherlock's body with his own at the _exact same time_. By the time _he_ was done with him, Sherlock wouldn't be alarmed at sex, he would be _begging_ for it, no matter _how_ many times he protested he didn't beg . . . and it would be _John_ who made him do it.

With that powerfully and dangerously addicting thought, he thrust upward AND tightened himself around Sherlock as his fingers focused on Sherlock's obviously sensitive chest. The detective, oh so obviously against his better judgment and control, suddenly arched backward with a jerk and a loud outcry. His hips thrust forward, and John's lower torso rose to meet him as Sherlock gripped his thighs in a bruising grip and yanked him onto himself.

Oh. Not a bit good.

John realized he had to slow down as he gazed at the dark look of self-hatred and burgeoning depression that Sherlock wore. He had to make it seem like it was still Sherlock in control of the situation, if only to save the man his pride and ego. Just because John wanted to break the man in bed, did _not_ mean he was willing to break the man, and sex had a strange way of weakening strong people, even as it strengthened weak ones.

A weak Sherlock was _not_ something he wanted to contemplate. The man already had enough problems with being a misunderstood, misdiagnosed genius and drug addict, and John hardly wanted to be the one who pushed him back into the needle.

John panted and slowly drew his arms over the man's shaking shoulders up to his neck, and Sherlock couldn't help but raise his eyes. "If they come in here, you are still too easy to recognize. Down here," John pointed to his chest and neck. "Your head will block my face and my hands can block yours."

Yes! Logic!

_Something_ Sherlock could hold onto before he shattered into a million pieces, and he grasped the thin thread of it and pulled himself back into some semblance of control. However, it would mean touching _all_ of John, and he wasn't sure he could do that and still remain strong . . . still remain someone he recognized . . . especially if John used _that_ voice again . . . that dominating voice that for some reason made his stomach clench and his toes curl.

Thank goodness John hadn't been aware of _that_!

However, the doctor's logic about being recognized was strong, and, with his arms still trembling, but nowhere near what they had been, he lowered himself down, until he lay over John's body. He inhaled John's scent, and as what he intellectually knew were pheromones that were invisible and nothing but mere chemistry invaded his Self, he was suddenly almost hyper-aware of the unfamiliar hardness that was trapped between their bodies. Without warning, John turned Sherlock's head slightly to the side and pressed their faces together until their lips met.

"Realism," he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, and thrust up, into Sherlock's body.


	8. White Flags

**A/N: **As always , I totally want to thank all of you who are Following, Favoriting, and Reviewing this. :D

OH! I forgot to tell you that originally, this story was supposed to be a bit of funny, First-Time, light-hearted fluff but apparently the 'guys' didn't quite agree with that. I hope no one is too disappointed.

So, 'M' and not mine. And beware the 'F' bombs . . .

S/W/S/W

_"__Realism," he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, and thrust up, into Sherlock's body._

John almost grinned as Sherlock's mouth met his. He shivered as his erection was trapped between their bodies, and the sweat they were both covered in, made it slick and it responded as he had known it would. He moved, and reminded Sherlock of why they were there. The surprised grunting groan that left Sherlock was swallowed by John. A moment later, his own voice joined Sherlock's as their bodies decided that _both_ of them had been thinking _way_ too much, and instinctively took what was wanted.

Sherlock shifted his position slightly and thrust hard into John, and finally hit against his prostate. John opened his mouth to yell, but the yell was captured and swallowed by Sherlock's lips and tongue. John, lost in the unexpected ecstasy of Sherlock's thrusts, barely noticed that his and Sherlock's tongues had met and were all but grappling for dominance.

For John that wasn't an unusual feeling and something that simply happened during sex.

It was familiar sex, it was feeling good sex, it was something John hadn't had in a while, and there was nothing, in his mind, wrong with any of it . . . including Sherlock's tongue.

Sherlock noticed however, and with a gasp, drew his head back.

He'd forgotten, briefly, that it was John under him. It was his straight, best friend he was taking _only_ for the purpose of saving their lives; not some experienced stranger that he'd chosen because he had information that Sherlock needed.

John opened his eyes fully and he felt Sherlock pull away from him. He was finally able to see into those gloriously silver/blue/grey eyes and reveled in the fully dilated pupils and thudding pulse that he knew was for no one but himself. He suddenly frowned and watched as fear briefly replaced the wonderfully glazed look of passion that his friend had worn only to be covered with a bland, untouchable look a moment later.

Angrily, John knew that he wanted that lustful look back. There wasn't going to be any more fear or feigned indifference, and John knew it was feigned, and he vowed that Sherlock was _not_ going to ruin this moment for him . . . or for himself. He tangled his hands in the dark, silky curls that had so teased his face a few moments before and forced Sherlock to look into his eyes,

"Don't you _dare_ pull away from me! I won't let you!" He growled, no longer fearing the men in the hallway; only wanting to continue with what they were doing that made his body feel so incredibly good. He pulled Sherlock's head back to his, and he felt the _exact_ moment when Sherlock gave in because the next thrust slammed the headboard of the bed against the wall and John rose to meet him.

John's growl and tight pull on his hair completely undid him, and Sherlock _finally_ gave in to the fire that consumed his body and robbed his mind almost of all thought but to satiate John's physical demands on his body and _damn_ the reasons there were for even _having_ that physical demand.

The fire that fueled him took over completely and he plunged into John, who met him thrust for thrust, kiss for kiss, and touch for touch. The two men barely registered the heavy thumps of the bed as it slammed repeatedly into the wall, or the loud squeaks of the springs as they sang of the union that went on above them.

As for Marsialli's men, well, they had decided that people who made _that_ much noise just _had_ to be faking it, and they threw the door open.

One literally gagged and shouted about having it with 'this damned place and all the equally damned poufs', while the other cursed and yelled about how 'if Marsialli had wanted to protect his damned business so much, then he never should have attracted the attention of damned Sherlock Fucking Holmes and they were _both_ leaving Marsialli behind that very night for Barbados and all the alcohol and hot women they could fuck forever clearing their minds of that nights' all too clear visuals'.

A moment later, the door was slammed shut so hard the entire doorway reverberated and plaster fell from the ceiling.

As for John and Sherlock, well, all either one heard or knew were their own cries, moans, and gasps of pleasure that made them want more of the same from each other. John knew that Sherlock's hips and back were going to bear bruises after that night, but he couldn't stop the grip he had on the man even if he'd wanted to, as Sherlock took him closer and closer to his orgasm.

In response, he tightened himself around Sherlock, and when his climax _did_ hit him, it was almost sooner than he was prepared for. Far beyond any kind of conscious control, John threw his head back and howled as his body quaked and then exploded in a long stream of almost fire-hot liquid that covered his and Sherlock's chests and stomachs.

Sherlock, completely unprepared for the overwhelming intensity of John's climax, was caught by surprise as John's body seized around his own. He gripped John's shoulders and his whole body convulsed over John's. He couldn't keep his loud wail of satiation inside, though he did try, and it was muffled only slightly as he pressed his face into the juncture between John's neck and shoulder.

It seemed to go on forever, but really could only have been a few seconds, but when it was over, Sherlock could do nothing more than quite literally collapse over John as the shuddering after effects of his own orgasm passed through his body. No less spent, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and both men lay silently together, recovering their breathing as well as their equilibrium.

S/W/S/W

**A/N: As you'll notice, I don't usually put A/N's at the end o my chapters, but I just want to let you know, that this isn't quite it. There's prolly a couple more chapters in this story to go, and then I can start posting the second installment in this . . . okay, it's a series, but it's small . . . mini-series. :D Yeah, that's it. Mini-Series.**


	9. Deductive Regrets

**A/N:** Greetings all you wonderful Followers/Favoriters/Reviewers! This is me letting you know exactly how much I TRULY appreciate you and your interest in my scribbles! :D You are all AWESOME!

I also want to tell you how sorry I am for the delay on chapters. :( I was just lazy . . . no excuses.

Also. Please remember this is rated 'M', though it gets more tame from this out. :D And they aren't mine, therefore no money . . . or chances to walk on a red carpet in a killer gown and gorgeous heels as high as my forearms. :D

Anyway, onto it! :D

S/W/S/W

_It seemed to go on forever, but really could only have been a few seconds, but when it was over, Sherlock could do nothing more than quite literally collapse over John as the shuddering after effects of his own orgasm passed through his body. No less spent, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and both men lay silently together, recovering their breathing as well as their equilibrium._

John looked at Sherlock's head as it lay cradled on his shoulder and he was startled to see that his face was scrunched up in a way he had only seen once before, and that was during Baskerville when Sherlock's body had betrayed him, and he had fought for and lost control.

"Sherlock?" His voice rasped in his throat and he cleared it. "Are you all right?"

"Am I all right?" Sherlock hissed angrily and tried to roll off John's suddenly pliant, but steady body. However, John wasn't ready to let him go and he held on. Sherlock gave up the fight to leave a moment later and grimaced as his rapidly softening penis slipped out of John's body. "How can you ask that of me, after what I just did?" Finally, John had no choice but to let the other man go, though all Sherlock did was to simply roll over onto his back. "Damn it. I need a cigarette," he cursed, and John snorted.

"I don't let you smoke in one of your bouts of boredom and/or depression, Sherlock. What makes you think I'd let you smoke after sex?" He shook his head and looked over at his friend's silhouette. "And what do you mean, 'after what _you_ just did'?"

"Really, John, even you can't be that stupid that you don't know what I mean," Sherlock scowled, but John didn't rise to the bait knowing that it wasn't really him Sherlock was angry at. "Shall deduce it for you then?" He demanded, and continued.

"You are always protesting that you aren't gay, and therefore not interested in having intercourse with men, since that _is_ what 'not gay' implies. You never showed any inclination toward men, which means that you either were so deeply into the closet you didn't know yourself, or you really _aren't_ gay. Had you though, ever chosen to _have_ intercourse with a man, and knowing you as well as I do, I believe you would have made a much better choice in venues than some seedy back alley euphemistically termed 'hotel for the Alternative Lifestyle'.

"You also _certainly_ would never have done _this_," he gestured at the mess that was on their bodies. "Had you been given an actual choice. Seeing as that right to choose for yourself when and where you were to do this was forced on you, as well as the right to choose your partner was taken away also, even if you had chosen to engage in this with someone, it most certainly would _not_ have been me. Your choice in bed partners certainly runs to someone more practiced and better at it than I, whose experience was limited to doing it when high and not in any arguable control over himself, or someone used to using peoples' bodies to only gain for himself!

"Therefore, since your choices were really no choices at all and certainly _not_ good ones, they were quite literally _forced_ on you. Because sex that is forced on someone or they were coerced into any sexual act through blackmail or violence is labeled 'rape', then logic dictates that you were raped, and that I, Sherlock Holmes, raped you," bitterness filled his voice with self-loathing and John clenched his fists in anger as Sherlock continued. "Having been raped by your purportedly best friend, you should be far from all right and your first question afterward should _not_ be 'are you all right, Sherlock', it _should_ be 'when am I, John, going to call the police and have Sherlock arrested for perpetrating rape."


	10. Rebuttals

**A/N: I don't know if this is going to come out smaller than any of the other font, but I can't fix it and I'm tired of trying. So, with that said, maybe making it bolder will make it easier to see . . .**

**Thank you all! I wanted to try and make up for the no chapters, but giving three, but I'm not sure if I can do that as I have other things I need to do today . . . :(**

**'M' and not mine . . .**

S/W/S/W

_"__Therefore, since your choices were really no choices at all and certainly not__good ones, they were quite literally forced__on you. Because sex that is forced on someone or they were coerced into any sexual act through blackmail or violence is labeled 'rape', then logic dictates that you were raped, and that I, Sherlock Holmes, raped you," bitterness filled his voice with self-loathing and John clenched his fists in anger as Sherlock continued. "Having been raped by your purportedly best friend, you should be far from all right and your first question afterward should not__be 'are you all right, Sherlock', it should__be 'when am I, John, going to call the police and have Sherlock arrested for perpetrating rape."_

"Oh no," John sat up on his elbow and stared down at Sherlock. "Don't you _dare_ call yourself a rapist. I may not have had a _real_ choice, but you just saved our lives, damn it, and as you'll recall, not just _ours._

"Granted, it was in one of the most unorthodox ways I've _ever_ experienced having my life saved, but in no way am I all that surprised about the 'unorthodox' part especially when ti comes to you, but that's exactly what you did and I'm not going to let you regret that.

"Yes, it's true I never showed any inclination toward men, but that's because the thought never occurred to me that there'd ever be a time when I actually would _have_ to be inclined to! And as I'm sure you'll recall, I wasn't _exactly_ an inactive participant," he pointed to the mess on his chest and stomach and shook his head as a small smile pulled the corners of his lips upward. "And, Sherlock, really, if there's someone out there better than you, then it's a good thing I was with _you_ and not _him_, because I'd've had a heart attack before we'd even gotten to the _really_ good part."

"That's not what I meant . . ." Sherlock snapped and John scowled.

"I know _exactly_ what you meant, and I'm ignoring it because if I responded, I'd be yelling and we'd be here beyond our allotted three hours and you'd have to pay for _another_ three hours because I'd _still_ be yelling at you."

"Speaking of which, we can leave now," Sherlock said and John swore he was going to get whiplash one day from Sherlock's lightning fast subject changes. "I believe those who were looking for us actually kicked the door in, but . . ." He actually colored, and once more looked away. "I wasn't really listening," he admitted, his voice low, and John couldn't keep the short burst of laughter inside but choked it off before it could turn into hysteria . . . one hysterical drama queen . . . again he choked back his laughter . . . in that situation was enough. Well, he guessed he knew what Sherlock was now, so again, screw you Irene Adler.

"Yeah. Me either," he finally said as he drew his mind back to their conversation. "But from the way the bed was hitting the wall, I'd say we convinced _them_, at least _three_ of our neighbors, _plus_ the next building, that it wasn't us Marsialli's men were looking for. But you aren't going to get away with changing the subject, Sherlock.

"Despite what you think, you really, after a time, didn't do anything that I _didn't_ want done," he blinked. "Much to my surprise . . . and . . ." he had to admit it, after all it was true. "Pleasure."

"Damn it, John!" Sherlock pulled himself as well as the bedspread off the bed and put several feet of space between them as he wrapped the bedspread around himself. "Don't you understand!? Pleasurable though it may have been, and as you recall, I _did_ say I could _make_ it that way, it should have been wanted . . . and special! The first time should _always_ be special!" Sherlock stared at the bathroom door. "It should be special. Not with . . . with someone like me in a place like . . . like _this_!"

John sat up, pulled the sheet up to his waist, his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his legs. "Sherlock, this isn't like you at all, and I don't like it." He frowned and Sherlock looked down. "I'm going to tell you one more time and then this is it. We're going to drop the whole thing, get a shower, get the hell out of here, and get whatever crap that's needed to Mycroft,. Then we're going to forget, or if we can't forget, then at least, push this so far to the back of our minds, or in your case, delete it, that it never comes up again, especially since it bothers you so damned badly.

"Sherlock, if, _if_ I were going to do anything like that with _anyone_, it would have been you. For my first . . . and _last_ time, it _was_ special. It . . . you . . . was and were good," John tilted his head and revised his thought, and smiled. "No, it was _better_ than good, Sherlock. It was bloody fantastic. Now, I'm taking a shower and we're going to get _past_ this, okay?"

He waited until he received a curt nod from Sherlock, got up and all but stalked to the bathroom and closed the door. When he was on the other side, he all but slid down the door and rested his head on his knees. His breath came fast and furious, and he felt the sweat and Sherlock's body fluids run down and out of his body, and he almost groaned out loud.


	11. Hints of Future Past

**A/N:** Hullo yet again! :D We're on the next-to-last leg of our tour, I believe, and since I went three days without posting, here you go with yet another chapter to make up for that. :D Thank you again to all my wonderful followers! I didn't think I'd get so many! And my reviewers! I was totally nervous, but you have kept me going and I am truly thankful! and my Favoriters and even an Author Favoriter or Two! You all are awesome as well! :D

Okay, as you know, this was an 'M' rated story; male on male and I'm not making any money of this . . . if I did I would certainly make some of y'all's stories into episodes!

And speaking of stories, those of you who are writing stories I'm following, please add more chapters. I'm going into withdrawl. And if you did add chapters, and I haven't reviewed in the last couple days, well, I've been lazy and erally have no excuse, but know that I AM reading them almost the minute they come into my inbox. But really, how many times can you say, "Awesome story!" before you guys get bored of hearing it? :D

Anyway . . .

S/W/S/W

_He waited until he received a curt nod from Sherlock, got up and all but stalked to the bathroom and closed the door. When he was on the other side, he all but slid down the door and rested his head on his knees. His breath came fast and furious, and he felt the sweat and Sherlock's body fluids run down and out of his body, and he almost groaned out loud._

Who the hell he thought he was kidding he honestly didn't know, but he sure as hell hoped he'd fooled Sherlock with his anger and his protestations because he _sure_ wasn't fooling himself. What he'd had with Sherlock had been among one of the most incredible fucks he could remember in his life. So much for him not being gay . . . at least, not where Sherlock was concerned.

Maybe he was just Sherlocksexual.

He exhaled, stood, and turned the shower on. He knew that things had changed between the two of them, that was for sure, and while he wasn't sure he wanted a repeat performance of that evening, there was no way he was going to be able to forget it. He shifted uncomfortably as his body burned, and he also knew he'd be sore for a couple of days.

However, he'd told Sherlock the truth and only hoped the other man knew he'd meant what he said about not having any regrets about what they'd done. After a moment, he stepped under the warm running water, and automatically washed himself down, though he was unusually gentle as he cleaned what he had told Sherlock had technically been virgin territory. He couldn't keep his mind off the mind-blowing sex he'd had with one of the most frustrating people it had ever been his pleasure . . . he snickered as his pawky sense of humor kicked in . . . to had ever known.

However, at the same time, that same person, was, for some reason and completely against any and all kind of logic, obviously more freaked out about that than he was . . . to the point he had named himself a rapist.

Oh no. Sherlock sure as hell was no rapist.

John had been raped before . . .

'Oh please, mind,' he all but begged himself as he clapped his hands on either side of his face and shook his head almost hard enough to hurt his neck. He should have known that sex with Sherlock would dredge up the memories, but he had hoped he would be able to hold them off a little bit longer. And, he sure as _hell_ didn't equate rape with Sherlock, especially not while they were in the middle of willingly doing it and it wasn't fair that the memories wanted to make themselves known immediately afterward.

Do not go there, John. Not now!

He wanted to cry out as the memories tried to force their way up, but he clenched his fists, and knew that if Sherlock heard him, he'd come in and it would confirm his friend's thoughts about himself, and none of it was true.

Sherlock, though controlled, strange, arrogant, hurtful, and snarky, would _not_, under _any_ circumstances, have done what had been done to him and John knew it. He leaned back against the wall and filled his mind with Sherlock and all they had done together over the years until the evil memories he kept pushed down and hidden were once more forgotten. He almost collapsed to his knees in relief as he remembered Sherlock's violent reaction to what had happened between them and all his mind knew was that Sherlock had mentally hated doing it.

He had been right about Sherlock somehow being, in some way diminished after his 'death' , and only time itself would help Sherlock return to what he had been before, though what they had done was going to be a set-back for him. However, it was a set-back John was _not _going to allow. He wanted his friend back and he wanted him back as soon as possible, and if that meant that they had to return to their accepted status quo of merely flatmates and best friends then so be it, and this moment in time w_ould_ be forgotten.

Well, John could do that. John had actually forgotten a lot more than he remembered, and if that was what his best friend needed him to do, then that's what he would deliver.

He steeled himself and his reactions behind what had once been called his 'soldier face'. He picked up the sheet from the floor and using the cleanest end to cover himself, all but marched back out to the bedroom. He barely glanced at Sherlock as he headed to his clothing and dropped the soiled sheet back onto the bed. A moment later, Sherlock, his head held high, went into the room John had just vacated, and John proceeded to get dressed.


	12. Thus It Ends So Far

A/N: Oh to heck with it. We're on the last chapter, might as well post this one tonight also. I'm in the process of doing the first re-write on the second part of this mini-series. I've changed the title a couple times, so I can't really tell you what to look out for, but I certainly hope that if you liked this one, you'll like the next one. :D

Again, I am completely in your debt all my Follower, Favoriters, and Reviewers!

As always 'M' and SO not mine. :(

S/W/S/W

_He steeled himself and his reactions behind what had once been called his 'soldier face'. He picked up the sheet from the floor and using the cleanest end to cover himself, all but marched back out to the bedroom. He barely glanced at Sherlock as he headed to his clothing and dropped the soiled sheet back onto the bed. A moment later, Sherlock, his head held high, went into the room John had just vacated, and John proceeded to get dressed._

Unknowingly, Sherlock repeated John's actions, and slid down to the floor. He tucked his long legs to his chest and ran his hands over his face as his thoughts raced through his head. He had long known that John was physically attractive; anyone with eyes knew that, and oh, he did have eyes.

Then, when he had . . . left and was alone, there were sometimes, though not often, when he wondered if John had been there with him, if they would have ended up sharing their bodies as they fought for warmth and even mere comfort. After all, having been cut off for so long and so many times from civilization and surrounded by the pure evil that had been Moriarty's web had not been pleasant at all. But, even if they had, that would had been John's choice to make. It wouldn't have been Sherlock's, Marsialli's men, or the circumstances. Sherlock wouldn't have had to _force_ himself and his desires on his friend.

Sherlock hated, with everything in him the circumstances and all the people, not the least of whom was Mycroft even if it _was_ peripherally, that had forced the issue . . . that had taken Sherlock from his wonderment and speculation to forced reality.

John had told him to delete what they had done, and Sherlock was oh so tempted to do just that. However . . . hesitation was never a good thing . . . and neither was the fact that truthfully, and he could be honest with himself because he was alone, he really didn't _want_ to.

Despite what he had done, or maybe because of it (after all there was more than one way to punish yourself when the person who should be doing it wasn't) he wouldn't delete _any_ of it. He was going to hold onto that memory of John; his bodily reactions to Sherlock's pleasuring of him, and Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his hair as the memories of John's cries, moans, and most importantly, his surrender, darted through his mind for the rest of his life.

Decision made, he stood, dropped the bedspread and mechanically, showered. He used the other towel and having never felt the need to cover his body before in front of John, he made the conscious decision not to do so again. By the time he exited the bathroom, his 'normal' facade of cool indifference was clearly in place. John was fully dressed, and he turned away, body held in parade rest, until Sherlock finished.

John turned back around and in one of the moments that made them work so very well together, gave Sherlock a silent look that asked if he were ready. Sherlock nodded perfunctorily and they left the room together without looking left or right having, as usual, had an entire conversation without saying a word.

They passed almost like ghosts through the lobby though they felt the old man's eyes on them, and they stepped outside into the darkness, intent on getting to Mycroft and returning to Baker Street where there was whatever passed for them as 'normal'.

However, had they looked back, the clerk's window not been so darkly tinted, and the door hadn't shut, they would have seen the old man pick up a cell phone and send a rather unusual text.

"No observable change."

The End of This Part . . .


End file.
